


Beacon Hills Boys Academy

by AkumaStrife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boarding School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scholarship kids tend to run together, doing their best to smile through the insults and jibes from those with money. Scott couldn’t care less, he’s got Lacrosse and his grades to worry about, but he sees how it eats away at Stiles, sees how it turns his sarcasm to ash in his mouth as he thinks of his dad, all alone, back at home with even more bills to pay. So while Stiles busies himself with various schemes and plans within plans, Scott teaches the high class snobs that there are some things money can’t buy; and when he’s done washing the blood from his knuckles he crawls into Stiles’ bed to remind him that he’s not alone. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Beacon Hills Boys Academy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnackerJack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnackerJack/gifts).



They have sex twice in the first week they know each other. Freshman orientation week at Beacon Hills Boys Academy is always a hectic affair, with too many emotions flying around and whipping the students into mob-like frenzies.  

Scott and Stiles had exchanged enough emails during the summer that when they both moved in that sunny day in August, they clicked like they’d been best friends forever. Easily slid into each other’s lives and routines because that’s what felt most natural. Like they finally belonged. It was that that spurred them, alongside the terrifying realization that they were alone now, counties away from home and only half a dorm room to their name. That terrible loneliness of being in the big world without a familiar face, and finding someone who felt like they were meant to fill that anxious hole at their core. 

When you are fourteen-going-on-fifteen everything seems different and you see the world in a warped vision. Tender and vulnerable—anyone sent away to boarding school at such an age would cling to any stability they could find. Curious and suddenly so free, anyone would make stupid mistakes. Rush into things they have no real understanding of. 

That first night, after activities and figuring out which classes they’d be attending and setting up Scott’s xbox to Stiles’ laptop and learning the hell that is the caff; after the lights are out and both boys are wired with sudden understanding of how far from home they are, Stiles pads across the room and pushes into Scott’s bed. He laughs it off and Scott only pretends to be weirded out before they’ve shifted enough to fit together in the twin mattress. It’s comfortable, and easier to have someone going through the same thing; Scott against the wall and facing Stiles, who’s on his back, their legs pressed together experimentally. Stiles’ hand trembles slightly where it touches Scott’s. 

Scott’s eyes glow in the moonlight, matching Stiles’ bright smile, and curiosity has them gravitating together. Neither have kissed anyone before, as is evident in the clumsy movements of Scott’s lips and how Stiles fidgets because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or if he should roll over to press against Scott. They fumble and have to separate because they’re laughing at how their noses get crushed together and their teeth clack painfully. It’s a bit wet. There’s a lot of awkward rearranging of limbs and hesitant movements, unsure whether the other is going to chicken out, unsure where the boundaries are and what they even want.  

Scott’s only just entered puberty, all the sensations shiny and new, and Stiles has only touched himself a few times. He takes the lead by palming Scott through his sweatpants, and Scott follows.   

They don’t talk about it afterwards, tangled together even though it’s too hot and they feel kind of gross with the additions of sweat and semen drying on their skin. But it’s their first night away from home and they’re all each other has, and so Stiles talks about his Dad at home and this girl named Lydia who used to go to school with him and is at the Girls Academy across the river. He mentions his mom, his words hesitant and soft as he can barely wrap his lips around the C word. But by that time Scott’s asleep, drooling on his clavicle, so Stiles doesn’t know how much he really heard.  

Things proceed like normal the following morning, Scott already through the shower by the time Stiles can get his eyes open. They go down to lunch together and spend the day exploring their new campus. But by the end of the week, when the lights are out and their textbooks are stacked and ready for class, Scott’s bed creaks as he gets up. Stiles can hear him hesitating, shuffling around on his side of the room, before he crosses the floor and slips under Stiles’ blankets. 

“I miss my mom,” Scott finally whispers after a while. 

Stiles waits a moment too long, and Scott is about to return to his own bed hastily and plead to not be made fun of, when he sort of breathes out this half laugh and kisses Scott. “Yeah, I’m getting kinda homesick myself.”  

They’re too young to be doing this. Too young to be doing it out of need, rather than foolish notions of love. Because need claws at them deeper than lust; strikes fast and ruthless and leaves them gasping for breath. Stripped of their skin and shaking with glassy eyes like an addict cut off cold. Mindlessly searching; so reckless and defiant. Because doing something rather than nothing—so far from home so suddenly where everything is new and without instruction—is the only thing that makes sense. Even if Stiles doesn’t understand the pit in his stomach that is both hollow and warm, and Scott’s fruitless grasping for some missing piece that eludes him like airy threads of gossamer. 

 

* * *

 

The third time probably isn’t all the uncommon in a school full of hormonal guys. Especially where sports are concerned, because there’s trust and companionship and the excuse to be close and touch as long as you’re teammates. It’s a spectacular cover, and you almost can’t differentiate between impassioned boys with hunger clawing out of their throats and those who’s fingers shake and eyes haunted with the fear that the next touch is going to give them away. 

Stiles is on the Lacrosse team, but hasn’t actually played yet. He does great moral support from the bench, though, so it can’t be said that he isn’t loyal. Scott gets to play _sometimes_ during practice, but it’s rare and usually only when a player can’t walk straight, much less run the field. He’s played a grand total of two times and has scored zero goals. Stiles still complains about it with flailing arms and lengthy speeches about oppression and betrayal.  

Their first game of the season Scott gets called in with three minutes to finish, losing by three points. He buckles down and gives it his all, despite the fact he’s terrified they’re going to lose and it’ll be all his fault. He doesn’t know why Coach Finstock thought it’d be a good idea to put him in at the very end, but the guy’s a bit off his rocker so he tries not to think about his decisions.  

Their life is not some after-school special, so Scott doesn’t shoot the winning goal, but he does assist in stealing the ball and sending it flying neatly into the pocket of Jackson’s stick, who then sends it rocketing into the goal, much to the crowd’s approval (which is putting it mildly because as soon as the point registers on the board and the clock zeros out a second later there’s a full scale riot on their hands). 

Jackson is triumphant and swarmed by their teammates—Stiles and Scott included—because it’s their first game and they actually won and Scott gets the satisfaction of playing a pivotal role (later Stiles lets him be player number one when they fire up the xbox and reassures him that they couldn’t have done it with out him).  

After the locker room is filled with shouts and cheers and guys shaking each other by the shoulders. It’s nice, and the camaraderie and sense of community even includes Scott somewhat (and Stiles by association). Guys filter out to deal with various duties for the after party and soon they’re the only two left in the showers. Stiles is still grinning and mouth a thousand miles an hour, recounting each part of the game over and over and Scott doesn’t mind listening. He’s still jittery, still a bit shaky from nerves and adrenaline, his heart still erratic. 

Stiles is so wrapped up in his play by play that he seems to forget where he is. “And then BAM you totally come out of freaking nowhere and steal the ball right from under the behemoth’s noise! I’m still impressed, dude, I had no idea you had it in you.” And then he’s kissing Scott. He’s still talking but kisses him all the same. It’s impulsive and electric and off center, and Scott doesn’t mind. He needs something to do with his hands, something to help the way his lungs still feel tight, and this is doing it for him.  

Stiles makes a surprised, but very pleased sound, when Scott starts kissing back. He moves into Scott’s shower spray as Scott slides his hands over his flushed skin, unable to get a good grip with the water. It’s fast, and a little uncoordinated, but it works well for their inexperience—Scott thrusting into Stiles’ soaped up thighs. It satisfies Scott’s frazzled nerves and the need that makes his chest too full and his thoughts muddled. Stiles is just out of his mind to get some release. It seems like he’s hard all the time these days, and he can barely keep up, can barely babble through the breathlessness. He gasps and crushes himself into Scott’s stomach, moving into the small indents of new muscle.

And then Scott’s mouth is under his chin and he forgets how to remember. 

 

* * *

 

The fourth time is a complete accident. Well… _more_ of an accident than usual. 

Stiles doesn’t mean to. It's not like he actively thinks about his roommate when he's getting off, but it's kind of hard not to when Scott's sweatshirt is hanging off his shoulders. Warm and soft from use; smelling like his woodsy soap and lingering detergent. It's not like he planned it. The temperature had dropped a bit over night (which really isn’t a surprise seeing as how it’s almost October) and his are dirty. He grabbed one of Scott’s and that was that. They share clothes when necessary all the time.  

But when he closes his eyes and bites his fist, it's not hard not to imagine it's Scott's hand instead of his own. It’s far too easy to scoot farther down his bed so the sweatshirt rucks up around his shoulders and engulf him a little more. It’s not hard to think of Scott when it’s like he’s being _smothered_ by him. Growing warm and the beginnings of sweat beading in the dip of his spine—heady with the lingering scent of him, soaking into him all day. He couldn’t get rid of Scott’s presence now even if he wanted to. He could fling the jacket away, but he’d still reek of him. His pores full of him, leaving Stiles to chase the scent up and down the skin of his arms like some junkie. 

So he doesn’t fight it (he’d be futile to try). He thumps his head back into the pillow and jerks all over, shoulders digging into the creaky mattress for leverage. When he comes it's like a punch to his gut and he tries to muffle his moan, because all he can think of is Scott crawling into his bed that first week and the way his angles fit neatly into all of his own.  

And it doesn’t even occur to him that this doesn’t actually count. That they didn’t have sex just because Stiles thought about Scott while he did. 

If it had, maybe he would’ve realized.

 

* * *

 

The eighth is when the heater for the North Dorms kicks it and the freshman are left shivering in their rooms, which hover religiously around fifty degrees.  

Stiles is curled up in his bed with multiple blankets stolen from Matt’s room across the hall and his text books, when Scott bursts into their room with relative fanfare. Shivering and dropping his bag near his desk as he complains, “Why’s it so cold? I thought we lived in California?” 

“Early December, heater’s out, terribly unprepared SoCali boy,” Stiles rattles off as he flips a page in his book.  

Scott just rolls his eyes. He glances at his side of the room, before stripping out of his three layers of shirts and one of Stiles’ jackets and kicking his shoes off as he hurries across the floor and hopping into Stiles’ bed with him. 

“Hey!” Stiles shrieks. “You’re friggin' freezing! In what dimension is this courteous?”  

Scott just laughs and presses his feet into Stiles and burrows farther down into his blankets, half climbing into Stiles’ sweater. “You’re so warm, stop hogging. S’rude,” he says, sounding almost drunk with it as he yawns.  

“I know a better way to heat you up,” Stiles mutters to himself, almost quiet enough that it barely passes his own lips. But Scott stills and peeks out from the blankets, eyes shining with curiosity. His hair sticks up from being under the covers even momentarily, and Stiles reaches down to fix it.  

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Stiles says, and looks back to his book propped up on his knees, fingers lingering in Scott’s hair and rubbing at his scalp.  

“No, no, you definitely said something interesting.” 

“Not to someone like you,” Stiles says casually. “Someone who refuses to help me find a way to fix our heating, and then proceeds to bring the chill in with him to my carefully built refuge from the cold. I’ll probably catch my death now. Maybe pneumonia. ” 

Scott balks. “It was two in the morning! You know we’re not allowed out after lights out, and we had early practice this morning!” 

Stiles shrugs and flips a page.  

They stay that way for countless minutes: Stiles dutifully reading his Biology book and Scott staring at him unblinking. Every once in a while Stiles will make an interested sound or flip a page, but otherwise ignores him. It’s only when he takes his hand out of Scott’s hair that his roommate sighs loudly and settles on his back, wiggling under Stiles’ arm up against his side.

 “Fine, I’m in. I’ll help you with whatever crazy scheme you’ve thought up that’ll probably get us sent to the Headmaster’s office. _Again_. Heck, at this rate The Code will have special chairs with our names on it.” 

Stiles grins wide and tosses his book to the floor with gusto. “You’ve made a very smart choice, McCall,” he says and taps Scott’s nose. 

“So at first I was thinking that we could just break into the rec room off the main gym, and steal a couple of space heaters,” Stiles starts. He shimmies out of his thick sweater and tugs the blankets over both their heads to trap the heat in with them. It’s quiet for a moment—startling quiet in the dark only broken by the sound of breathing the same air. But then Stiles is moving and talking again and the moment is broken. He scoots down the mattress and works to undo Scott’s belt in the dark.  

“But then I was thinking, we can’t just leave the other guys high and dry, you know? They didn’t ask for this either, and if we can figure out how to turn the whole building’s heating back on they’d totally owe us. Which is a total win-win, yeah?” 

“How are we gonna manage that?” Scott says, voice strained and higher than usual. It’s hard to concentrate with Stiles’ hand on his dick. “Neither of us know a thing about— _jesus fuck_ —electrical work.” 

“Exactly,” Stiles says, and pauses to lick the beading precum at the slit, making a thoughtful noise. He does it again and licks a long stripe up the underside of the shaft that has Scott jerking. “But Boyd does. Boyd’s making a friggin’ tesla coil for his Science Fair project.” 

“He’ll never agree,” Scott points out. He clenches his teeth against a whine and pushes his hips up, but Stiles won’t go any farther than suck at the head.  

Stiles pulls off with a pop and says, “He will if we help him sneak over to see Erica. She’s a terrifying blonde over at Ms. Morrell’s Academy, and Boyd’s got himself hooked. We’ll corner him at dinner and start just after lights out. By morning the Great Northern Dorms will be warm once again. Sound good?” 

“Yes, yes, it’s great, just please—“ His plea is cut off with a gasp as Stiles sucks him down, hand wrapped around the part he can’t fit in his mouth. It’s a bit sloppy and uncoordinated, but Stiles brings enough enthusiasm to make up for it. And distantly Scott laments the loss of his free will.  

Because even without the sex, he’d probably end up agreeing to whatever plan Stiles cooked up anyways. It probably comes with the territory, of being both Stiles’ roommate and best friend. Stiles’ craziness is now his craziness and he’s not surprised to find that he doesn’t really mind.

 

* * *

 

The twelfth incident is a bit different. The need is still there, but it’s been twisted and warped into something darker and more vulnerable. Something that Stiles wants to shy away from; something that calls out to Scott to sooth and fix.  

It’s not uncommon to get caught alone and unaware by the other boys on the lacrosse team (and it’s only ever the lacrosse team. The basketball kids care less about social hierarchy and competition, and those in soccer a lot nicer. Lacrosse is made up of aggression and power through fear). They don’t really have a reason to rough up the kids they corner—or if they do they rarely share with the class. Sometimes they throw names and slurs around, but “Fag” is a bit relative considering, and scholarship jibes are only entertaining for so long.  

They don’t have a reason beyond too much new testosterone that gets their blood pumping and their thoughts spinning, and the thrill of being on top, being feared and obeyed.   

So they just leer and push the smaller kids around. Knock their books out of their hands and toss their backpacks up into the tree branches. Back them up against walls and hurt them enough to make a mark. To show that they are strong and someone else it weak. It doesn’t make sense, and sometimes it makes the perpetrators confused and nauseous if they examine it too closely. But it happens often enough, but not so much that it gets the Headmaster’s attention. It’s what Hollywood has told them is the natural order of things and they’re too young to believe otherwise, so it works out okay for a while. 

Until the day when it’s Stiles backed up against the rock wall behind the art and music building.   

“Wait, let’s stop and think about all this,” Stiles says in a rush, hands up defensively as he tries to stand taller than he is. “I’m on your team, and Coach would definitely notice if I was injured enough to get in the way of my participation.” 

“You warm the bench,” one of them clucks. “Won’t make a difference if you can’t play.” 

Stiles shrinks back at the look in his eyes. He hears about kids getting roughed up around the campus when no one is looking, but he’s starting to get a sick feeling there’s more than one connotation to those reports.  

When Danny comes along and orders them off, he’s on the ground, curled protectively around his organs and back close to the brick wall (a shoe finds his kidney anyways and he sucks in a breath with a sharp, bitten off cry like water rushing through a cracked submarine and he feels like the pain will never dull).  

“C’mon guys, leave him alone. He’s not even much of a challenge.” 

“Jackson said we could,” one of them says, and Stiles doesn’t know which because he’s swimming towards darkness and his ears are ringing.  

“Well I say leave him alone, and if you want you can tell him I said that.” 

Stiles snorts, mumbling something about being whipped around a mouthful of blood. Because Jackson may be captain of the lacrosse team, but he’ll listen to whatever Danny says, and he’ll break anyone who doesn’t. 

The comment earns him another half-hearted kick to his shin, and it’s already bruised enough as it is, but he’s been told he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t care. Everything already hurts, what’s one more injury to the laundry list? 

After a bit they finally shuffle off, leaving Stiles to groan into the grass and bite his lip against the full-body ache he’s slowly developing. For a while he focuses solely on trying not to pass out. It wouldn’t do for him to spend the night outside, not when he’s somewhere conveniently out of sight and the nights are cold.  

He puts all his energy in maintaining consciousness (even though he’s so fucking tired and just wants to sleep for fifty years) and slowly starts to push himself up when he gets his breath back. His arms aren’t in too bad of shape, so it works for a few minutes, even if his vision doesn’t always come into focus and his head is screaming at him. He pushes himself into a sitting position and leans against the rock way with a grimace and a grunt. 

 _Half way there, buddy,_ he tells himself and moves to stand.  

Or not.  

His core muscles have never hurt this bad. He’s going to have bruises for days, he just knows it. His legs only have a splitting pain in his shins, so if he could just stand up he could probably make it. But he can’t get his body off the ground and he feels so goddamn pathetic. 

“C’mon, Stilinski, you’re stronger than this,” he mutters to himself. Over and over until he can get a good grip on the jutting rock in the wall behind him and forces himself up on two wobbly legs like some newborn animal.  

“Scott’s gonna worry if you don’t show up,” he tells himself and breathes hunched over, hands braced against his knees. “Hard part’s over, dude, we can do this.” 

He gathers his backpack and the few books that fell out during the initial scuffle, when he’d managed to push two of the lacrosse boys off him. He brushes some grass off his pants halfheartedly, licking a bit of blood off his teeth and wincing at the sting in his bottom lip, and starts for the North Dorms. It’s not terribly far so he makes it within good time, and it’s far enough into dinner that no one’s really about to see the mess that he is.  

The two flights of stairs are killer, but soon enough he’s shuffling across his room, dropping his bag to the floor as he face-plants into his bed. Oh, sweet bed. Warm and soft and he can excuse himself from classes tomorrow after the fact, so he’s just going to sleep and sleep until his body heals and he forgets how utterly weak he feels. How thoroughly humiliated and small he feels. So easily pushed around.  

“Stiles?” 

“Scott,” he mumbles into his pillow. He did not count on Scott coming back early.  

“You okay, dude? You brought half of outside in with you.” 

Stiles turns his head to be more easily heard, towards the wall where Scott can’t see, and quips, “Listen to you, making witty remarks and everything. You’ve learned well young padawan.” 

There’s silence for a few moments too long, before Scott hesitates a bit closer and asks again, “Are you okay?” 

He kicks his sneakers off and grinds his teeth as he pulls his legs up onto the bed, settling in a more comfortable position. Facing the wall. “Peachy.” 

Suddenly Scott’s hand is on his shoulder and he tenses, hunching his shoulders in and a little gasp stealing passed his lips.  

“What happe—“ 

“Nothing. I’m fine, leave it.” 

Scott makes a sound, one Stiles’ never heard before, it’s quite curious actually, before the bed shifts and moves and Scott curls against his back with his chin into the top of his shoulder. “Who did this?” 

Stiles says nothing and Scott gently rolls him, turns him over until they’re facing each other and he can asses the damage. Stiles refuses to look at him, his eyes shut, but there’s a tense crease between his eyebrows and Scott reaches up to smooth his thumb over it.  

“Who did this?” he asks again, but does not expect an answer. Just softly traces the cuts on his face and prods gently at the swelling around his left eye, which will surely darken and purple within the next few hours. He brushes dirt away where he can and wets this thumb to scrub the dried blood under his lip.  

“I’m fine,” Stiles insists again, but there isn’t much weight behind it. Like he’s trying to convince himself now. Like Scott’s not even there and it’s just him in his head. “This is so stupid, I’m totally fine. Just a few bruises, not like it’s gonna kill me. Happens to kids every day.” 

“It’s okay,” Scott says. He runs his hand up his jaw for a brief moment before fiddling with the other boy’s jacket zipper. “Can I? Please?” 

It takes a moment, but Stiles nods and Scott unzips his sweatshirt and peels off his shirt, more and more unsettled and upset at each new tender spot he finds. The normally pale skin is battered and red with swelling, covered in faint bruises and angry burns from where the gravel scrapped over his skin. 

Scott kisses Stiles’ quickly forming bruises, because that’s what his mom used to do for him and, despite what Stiles might think, he _was_ listening that first night. He was listening when Stiles, with a shaky voice and his heart hammering beneath his chest loud enough for Scott to hear with his ear pressed against it, whispered stories about his mother and how cancer had taken her from him.  

Scott kisses Stiles’ bruises because that’s what his mom used to do for him and Stiles doesn’t get that anymore, hasn’t gotten it for years. He presses a bit harder into the edges of some, and mouths softly at those that look deep; his tongue tracing them carefully. Trying to erase them. Trying to make everything better even though he can’t do a damn thing. 

He’s more than a little surprised when Stiles yanks his head up and kisses him, but goes with it. Doesn’t cringe when he tastes sharp iron on the other boy’s tongue.  

“You’re not okay,” Scott breathes into him, and before Stiles has the chance to argue he’s kissing down his stomach again. Fingers light over his ribs. He wiggles Stiles’ jeans off as he settles in between his legs, looking them over as well. They’re mostly fine, save a single bruise spreading over one shin. He presses a kiss to the side of one knee, thumbs rubbing circles on his thighs. Kisses each mole back up until he pauses over his boxers, and Stiles’ hands, shaky and scraped, push into his hair. Clutching tightly and desperate in an entirely different way than usual.  

Scott flicks his gaze up, watching Stiles angle his head back and work a thick swallow over the bend in his neck, lips pressed in a firm line.  

He’s never done this before, never given someone head, but it seems important right now. It’s important that Stiles knows that Scott’s there, and always will be, no matter what. He doesn’t really understand how a blow job is supposed to convey that, but it’s the best he’s got on such short notice (Stiles is the one who makes all the plans, it’s usually his job to do the grunt work and not ask questions.) 

“I brought you a plate from dinner, by the way. I figured when you didn't show up you'd still want something." 

Stiles laughs, the sound rough and surprised as it scrapes out of his throat. "I love you, dude. Knew you were my favorite for a reason.” 

And Scott laughs too, turning it into the skin of Stiles' inner thigh before it can change into something else, because it hurts less that way.

 

* * *

 

The sixteenth time can only be appropriately categorized as _fucking_. It’s less ScottandStiles and more Stiles-and-Lydia-and-Scott-in-the-background.  

All Freshman are required to participate in the Spring Science Fair. It is a large event between both the Boys and Girls Academies, held at the convention center in downtown Beacon Hills. And while Scott is setting up his potato-battery powered alarm clock, which rolls away when it senses movement so as to not be snoozed (while he may not be that great at science, he enjoys tinkering with mechanical things), he looks up to see where Stiles is with his poster board. He feels something dark and heavy and unnatural slink and ripple through the gaps in his ribs into his lungs. 

Scott watches Stiles watch Lydia. Stiles’ eyes dazed and wide, mouth slack and chapped lips forming an _Oh_ that never quite makes it passed his throat. He lingers on the tempting hem of her plaid skirt, hugging the new swell to her hips and thighs (he saw her at the combined pool party at eighth grade graduation, short and cute and her cheeks round with baby fat). Her lips are full and sticky with gloss that Stiles swears he can smell from across two aisles of tables for their projects; and her eyes somehow both bright and dark like the glossy photos he’s glimpsed in Matt’s magazines. She swings her hips and winks and flutters her impossibly long lashes, all while tilting her head and flipping her hair, smiling so saccharine sweet—Stiles wonders how someone can look so innocent when their eyes are laden with filthy promises. She’s soft and shapely and her gaze so fucking sharp it cuts through the crowd that hovers around her table like bees.  

She’s nothing short of glorious and Stiles feels like he can’t breathe properly. Briefly he wonders if he’s having a panic attack—the symptoms are the same—but then he sees the way the other kids act around her. The stupid expressions and the sweating and near panting like common dogs. He snaps his mouth shut because he realizes he’s no better. But who can blame him? She’s blossomed into a goddess in the midst of peasants. A tempest; a deadly storm of intelligence and wit, of beauty and sultry experience. _Precocious_.  

“Dude, you’re talking out loud again. Stop,” Scott says. He sounds a little peeved actually, almost insecure, but Stiles doesn’t catch what he normally would, doesn’t have enough brain cells left to pick up on every subtle detail about Scott he’s unknowingly memorized. He can only think of the ache in his bones; the maddening pressure between his thighs. Lydia has never payed any attention to him, but he can watch, has always watched. Watches now. The way she smiles at some of the lacrosse boys and rocks a little on her heels, touching their arms and giggling as she flirts them all easily under her spell. Stiles is far enough away, removed enough from the attack, to see it for the manipulation that it is, but he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be than in the light of her attention.   

Stiles makes a strangled sound and clutches Scott’s bicep tightly. He doesn’t give any sort of explanation, as he drags Scott off to the bathroom in the north hall where it will be abandoned, but Scott doesn’t need one. He knows that look. He lets himself be pulled along, and chuckles as he reminds Stiles to breathe—reminds him he’s not going anywhere. Stiles doesn’t answer because it’s not really Scott he’s after, it’s not Scott on his mind right now, and Scott knows it. Says it anyways because he likes to pretend. Makes it easier.  

Makes it easier to let Stiles push him into one of the empty stalls. The door bangs against the lock behind them—Stiles can’t even be bothered to throw the bolt—and the sound echoes in the tiled bathroom. Scott doesn’t know why it makes his lungs tighten or something sour pool on the back of his tongue. 

“C’mon, I’m dying here!” Stiles gasps, tearing at the buttons of his slacks as he pushes Scott up against the wall. He doesn’t pause long enough to get his pants off, just yanks his open and pushes Scott’s down to where they catch on his thighs, leaving them there as he ruts into the sharp dip of Scott’s pelvis. Presses damp skin into Scott’s—warm and soft. Almost soft enough to belong to someone else. Almost enough to convince him.  

The kiss is sloppy and needy and Stiles’ eyes are squeezed so tightly he can see stars. Stars the color of Lydia’s hair and eyes and sharp, sharp nails.  

“She’s such a fucking tease,” he says into Scott’s mouth, “that pretty, perfect bitch.” And Scott can only make a vague noise that's neither here nor there on the subject because he's being fucking devoured under Stiles' lips. His tongue and his teeth and the little pained noises he's breathing into Scott's flushed skin. The cut of his jaw and down his neck; Stiles tugging viciously at Scott’s button up like it’s personally offended him. _Come on come on come on._ Has to get that shirt open and mouth on that skin. But the skin available to him is too dark; too even and no freckles. The shoulders too broad and the chest too firm and flat. It’s not right. Stiles whines, but takes it anyways, tongue desperate over Scott’s heart. 

Scott’s chest heaves as he pants, and grips Stiles’ elbows. Trying to steady him or ground him or make him _slow the fuck down, I’m not going anywhere._ The nameless thing is fruitless anyways, because Stiles so far gone, so deeply buried in his own mind as he rocks into Scott’s hip, mouth latched onto his clavicle as if he might find it to taste of strawberries.  

(It doesn’t.) 

And Scott hates it, hates how much he's enjoying it, because Stiles is rarely this focused, rarely _this into it_.  

It's all because of Lydia. 

It's always Lydia. 

Scott can’t even be mad. Can’t even work up the anger and energy it would take to begrudge Stiles his fantasies. Because Stiles isn’t his. They’re not dating. They’re just really good friends who sometimes get off with each other, and that entitles Scott to nothing more than the occasional warm bed and homework help and long hours practicing on the field. He shouldn’t need anything else. He doesn’t want to be greedy. He should be content with what he does have and move on, focusing on more important things.  

But Stiles’ shy smiles and the way he licks his lips raw while playing video games, the way his skin flushes red all over when he’s looking up at Scott with those wide, wet eyes, _are_ important things. But this is not about Scott. Maybe next time it can be, maybe next time he can fix Stiles with a vengeful look and shove him to his knees and _take and take and take_ as Stiles is always so prone to doing. (He won’t, he knows this without review, but it’s nice to think about sometimes). 

It’s not about him, and so as Stiles works himself closer to release feverishly, Scott just holds him tightly and digs his blunt fingernails into Stiles’ back. Digs them in hard and drags until there are red welts because Lydia always has such long nails. It pushes Stiles over the edge, just as Scott expected, and he tries not to wince when her name is the one falling from Stiles’ pretty pink lips. 

  

* * * 

 

Jackson and Danny throw a party in their hall when Lacrosse season ends. No one knows who exactly gets the alcohol there, but Stiles gets his hands on some and soon he and Scott are fumbling at each other in a dark room with the door either locked or not even shut properly, Scott can’t remember. 

The booze dispels some of the tension between them; the awkward thickness that had Scott straining his smiles and Stiles puzzling over what was up with his best friend. Racking his brain for possible factors ranging between Lacrosse and classes and other students and the girls over the river, and even with his mom, because it never occurred to him that the problem may lie with him.  

The seventeenth time they have sex patches up their bond, despite the holes and strains that still linger. Seventeen has them panting and kissing each strip of bare skin as it’s revealed, almost starving for it in the past weeks they’ve spent apart, tiptoeing around each other for reasons neither of them really understand. Never once until now realizing how much they’ve come to rely on this, on the routine of physical comfort they’ve settled into.  

Seventeen has Stiles telling Scott how much he’s missed him as he lets Scott fist them both in his one hand, hips jerking up to help in anyway his clumsy limbs can.  

Seventeen has them waking up with pounding headaches in an unfamiliar bed with too bright sunlight streaming over them. Scott groans and rubs at his eyes, Stiles pressing harder into his shoulder, limbs wrapped around him like the octopus he obviously is. He feels sick and sticky and as if his mouth is coated with mold. 

“You guys awake?” 

It takes Scott a second to register the question, but he peels his eyes open and looks over to the other side of the room with mounting confusion.  

Danny tugs a layered shirt on and starts loading textbooks into his backpack. He looks up at them again, shooting them a half smile. “Classes are in an hour. I have some power bars in my desk drawer if you guys want, since it doesn’t look like you’ll survive dragging yourselves to breakfast.” 

“Danny,” is all Scott can respond intelligently with.  

The bigger boy just rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Yes, and I had to bunk with Jackson, you’re welcome.” 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s alright…” Danny hesitates, readjusting his grip on his backpack and glances at Stiles, who, for all intents and purposes, still looks dead to the world. “Are you guys good?” 

“What?” 

“Did you guys make up?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” 

Danny nods and slips into his shoes. “Good. Then things can go back to normal. It’s just not the same around here when you’re not attached at the hip and causing chaos, y’know? I swear Jacks had Greenberg get the keg just so you two would, as he so tastefully said, ‘fuck already and stop moping’.” 

Scott blushes and coughs in surprise. He thought Jackson hated them, by the way that he was always pushing them around the field. He doesn’t know when they became such a thing around school, when their friendship became the backbone of everyone’s routine. By the way Danny says it, he makes it sound like they’re what helps make the Academy home away from home.  

“And you better wash my sheets, or I’m gonna kill you at practice.” 

As he opens the door, Stiles rasps, “That color looks great on you! Be safe, have fun, drink water, be back before midnight. Don’t talk to strange boys.” 

They can hear Danny laughing all the way down the hall, and the last of the tension finally melts from Scott’s shoulders.  

It’s okay.  

They’re okay

 

* * * 

 

Eighteen and Nineteen follow each other in a happy haze. Warmth spreading in their chests and sluggish contentment like _home_ under their skin and something solid that never used to be there.  

The spring months are a bit colder than their hometown for some reason. It’s only a couple hours away, so the weather shouldn’t be that different. Maybe it’s because they’re away from home at all. But their once-a-month-saturday afternoon laundry tradition finds them rolling in the warm sheets and clothes, pressing too wide grins and teasing bites into each other’s skin. Not so much kissing as laughing into each other. They don’t leave their dorm until much later and at dinner their knees bump under the table.  

Matt rolls his eyes, but they’ve never really cared about his opinion anyways. A boy on their lacrosse team asks when they should expect the happy announcement. 

Stiles shakes his head, irritated. “It’s not like that, guys. Jeez, can’t two dudes just be best friends anymore? There’s nothing going on between me and Scott.”  

Scott picks at his spinach (Stiles’ always on his case about eating more vegetables and persistently sneaking them onto his plate) and laughs, ignoring the way his stomach shifts and suddenly he’s not really hungry. He moves his knee away, and he’s not even sure Stiles notices 

Semi-finals are the next week, and even though Scott’s dangerously close to flunking Econ he somehow finds himself in the rummage closet next to the library, a broom handle digging into his spine and Stiles giggling as he yanks Scott’s tie off with his teeth (he lost a bet with one of the other freshman and has to wear the bright orange monstrosity for the next week and a half). 

“I’ve got to study!” Scott hisses, but spreads his feet a little farther apart and grips Stiles’ hips, helping him slide onto his thigh. He doesn’t think about how familiar they are in this, how routine it’s become; is unperturbed about how they know each other inside and out.  

“Later!” 

Scott grinds forward and fumbles his hands into the back of his roommate’s pants even as he argues, “No! I’ve got a ton of homework and if I don’t pass this next test The Code’s gonna call my mom!” 

“Later, later, later,” Stiles chants into the damp skin of Scott’s neck, his grin a mile wide because he knows he’s going to get what he wants. He always gets what he wants, especially where Scott’s concerned. They’re too close, too intertwined by this point to deny each other anything, and it’s not like he’s not planning on helping Scott with his homework, just after they’re done with this.  

“All work and no play makes… well, I don’t know how the phrase goes, but it makes a person a drag and frazzled and burnt out, and I’m not about to let my best friend in the entire world kill himself over something as meaningless as a few grades. I’m only looking out for you.”

Scott snorts, but digs his fingers into Stiles’ backside; wonders how far he can get his fingers before Stiles tells him to stop again. “How selfless of you. Really taking one for the team.” 

“Oh, I can take a lot more,” Stiles murmurs, and Scott’s heart stops for a solid three seconds. He thinks he’s going to go into cardiac arrest, but then Stiles is pushing back into his hands and he searches in the dark for Stiles mouth and he’d be content to never breath again.  

It becomes a jumble. A mix of several more instances that are hard to keep track of.  

They are foolish enough to think it’s always going to be just like this. Easy and comfortable and open. That they’ll stop whenever they feel like it’s gone on enough, or a girl comes into one of their lives. When you’re fourteen-going-on-fifteen you are so naive and have no idea how bad it can get.

 

* * *

 

It can’t last. 

After it happens things change. Become heavy and tainted; the innocence gone without a trace. After it happens Stiles won’t speak to him for days, but never lets Scott out of his sight. He doesn’t let Scott go to class without him; follows him to the library and the gym and the taco place around the corner he’s never really cared for. Scott once snaps at him, about what he thinks he’s going to do when term lets out and they go back home for the summer. Stiles steps back as if slapped and wilts, looking tired and harried, and Scott doesn’t bring it up again.  

No one really know how it starts, or even if it could’ve been prevented in the first place. All they know is that in the middle of an ordinary night in March the boys in the North and West dorms wake groggily to flickering light and the cloying smell of something burning. Scott’s leaning halfway out their window before Stiles can untangle himself from the sheets.  

“Jesus…” 

Stiles leans over him to see what’s going on and about chokes on his own tongue. The South dorms glow bright and menacing with towering flames, and right in front of them a window blows out as a wall comes down. The fire department is already on the scene and countless shaking students and faculty stand on the front lawn watching,  

Scott pushes around his roommate and starts throwing clothes on. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stiles asks.  

Scott doesn’t even look at him as he shoves his feet into his shoes and grabs his key card. “They might need help.” 

“Scott, they’re the professionals, they know what they’re doing and they’ll do the best they can!” But his reassurance falls on an empty room because Scott’s already bolted, and Stiles has no choice but to follow.  

He catches up with him on the perimeter made by the firemen, Scott leaning over the barricade to see what’s going on better. Stiles catches Matt’s sleeve as he runs passed with his camera.  

“You know what’s going on?” he yells over the noise.  

Matt shakes his head. “No idea. I talked to Boyd and he said all was quiet until all of the sudden smoke started pouring up the east stairs. It spread before anyone could do anything.” 

“Did they get everyone out?” Scott asks, eyes glued to the steady stream of water arching into the first floor. 

Matt thinks for a moment, looking around them at the amassing students. “Yeah, I think Derek got all the freshm—Isaac! Isaac must still be in there. He didn’t come out with Boyd.” 

Scott looks wildly to the firemen, but none of them seem to be focused on the inside anymore, just hosing down the exterior. He grabs one by the arm as they rush by. “Sir, there’s still—“ 

The fireman pulls out of Scott’s grip. “Back up, kid! This isn’t a playground!” 

Scott looks helplessly at the dorm and then at Stiles and, before his roommate fully understands, vaults over the barricade and dashes across the lawn.  

All the air leaves Stiles’ lungs in a lurch, and for a moment he’s frozen, unable to do anything other than watch Scott dart around a fireman and duck through the partially collapsed doorway. A beam comes down and cuts off the opening, trapping Scott inside. 

His brain doesn’t even kick back on until after Stiles has already climbed over the fence and races after him. Matt calls after him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back or really think about what he’s about to do. He strips his jacket off as he runs and wraps it around his arm, smashing his elbow through a low window.  

It’s only when he’s in the burning building that it really occurs to him. Thick smoke pours into his lungs and he coughs hard, holding his sweatshirt up to his mouth to breathe through. The heat presses in at him from all sides and the sound like a roar. But he can’t choke up, can’t freeze now. He picks his way carefully through the wreckage and tries to find Scott. Everything looks so different like this, so foreign and dangerous and like another planet.  

There’s movement to his right and he turns blindly to it. Scott’s hands are in his jacket as he tries to push something heavy off Isaac’s foot. The kid looks terrified and tears would be streaked down his cheeks if they didn’t evaporate as soon as they began.  

Stiles stumbles over and throws his weight into helping Scott, and finally they get the chunk of ceiling up and shoved to the side. Scott stoops to brace Isaac’s weight as he pulls himself up using Stiles’ as leverage. The foot that was trapped won’t take any weight so they each put one arm over their shoulder, just as a wall behind them crumbles. The new rush of heat barrels over them and Scott almost losses it. But Stiles picks up some of the slack and the three of them hurry vaguely in the direction Stiles hopes he came from.  

There’s a new gap in the wall and they climb out. It takes seconds for the firemen to catch sight of them and rush to drag them all a safe distance away. 

They collapse just outside the barricade on the lawn, Isaac gasping as he turns to throw up in the grass. An adult is screaming at them, but Scott’s just trying to breathe, his lungs feeling like they’re made of cracked, desert rocks. Stiles watches him and refuses to look away. They couldn’t have been there for more than a few minutes, and yet it feels like an entire life.  

Much later, when the burns on his arm that he didn’t even realize he had are coated in thick salve and wrapped in bright white bandages, and Scott’s finally off oxygen, they stumble exhausted into their dorm. Scott just stands there, staring at the carpet, for ten full seconds before Stiles is on him. He gets a solid punch to his jaw before shoving him down to one of the beds and climbing over him, shaking him as hard as he can as if that’s going to fix it, as if that’s going to turn back time and make it so it never happened. 

“You stupid, fucking bitch!” he rasps. Shakes him again because it’s supposed to make him him feel better. Scott just looks up at him and lets him. Waits until Stiles is dripping tears on him and hyperventilating before he reaches up to wrap his hands around his face and pull him down against his chest, trying to ground himself, to remind himself to breathe and that it’s all reality and he’s not dead.   

The twenty-fifth time they have sex, the last time of their freshman year, is because of desperation and adrenaline and the gut-wrenching hopelessness that eats holes through their insides like the hungry, hungry caterpillar (except with all the color drained and there is no optimism, no childish hope).  

The twenty-fifth time is with hands that grip too tight and leave bruises, and Scott unable to stop shaking halfway through from shock. Stiles presses his forehead against Scott’s, trying to keep him there, to keep him close. He doesn’t even move his hips very much, just lies there buried inside him, tarnishing this first with an ugly heaviness that leaves their kisses tasting like ash and regret.   

After, Stiles distantly wonders how long they’ll going to get classes off for this. If maybe they can wheedle even more time and sympathy and passing grades out of it. 

The thought makes him sick.  

He doesn’t ask. 

It doesn’t matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This is a prologue to a long series I have planned. It will eventually branch out and include more characters and other pairings as it spans the four years at Beacon Hills Boys Academy and Morrell's Charm School across the river.


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